


Three Minutes

by persnickett



Category: Live Free or Die Hard (2007)
Genre: Ficlet, M/M, Plot What Plot, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-22
Updated: 2011-02-22
Packaged: 2017-10-15 21:12:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/164979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/persnickett/pseuds/persnickett
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>To say Matt is ‘surprised’ would probably get him a nomination for the understatement of the millennium award, on the morning he awakes to find McClane not only still in bed, but spooned up behind him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Three Minutes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sheafleur](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=sheafleur).



> Part of a smutlet trio written as a thank you for unexpected generosity by sheafleur over on lj.

Matt’s always liked sleeping in and McClane is a seriously early riser.  
   
Sure, Matt thinks it’s possibly compulsive, and totally masochistic, to be up and fucking _jogging_ at the ass crack of dawn. But it’s okay really, because getting up hours apart makes the fact that they have to share a bed – Matt’s bed being blown up and all – slightly less awkward.  
   
So to say Matt is ‘surprised’ would probably get him a nomination for the understatement of the millennium award, on the morning he awakes to find McClane not only still in bed, but spooned up behind him; one thewy, furred arm encircling him in a bear-like hold.  
   
“Mmhuh?” Matt says, before he can stop himself.  He isn’t quite sure what to do in this situation.  
   
He doesn’t know whether he’s supposed to fly into indignant alarm and flail wildly out of the embrace or to manfully maintain a stoic and unconcerned detachment until they can both deny it ever happened. He can’t even decide whether to let on that he’s woken up, and the fact that he hasn’t moved as of yet makes the decision harder with every rabbiting heartbeat.  
   
It’s a weird kind of conundrum; the panic of the realization of where he is, warring for dominance with the panic of the fact that he doesn’t seem to be doing anything about it. He isn’t even sure if McClane is awake or not.  
   
He gets his answer immediately though. The arm around his chest tightens considerably, pulling him backward so he can feel more of McClane pressed up against his back and his ass than is strictly kosher – given the status of their (non)relationship.  
   
Well. Morning thing, Matt guesses, can’t assume credit for _that_.  
   
McClane really is big. Pretty much everywhere, it turns out. But sometimes Matt forgets just how generally…large and heavy the dude is. The current reminder, if that is what McClane is going for, is more than effective.  
   
He’s also really hot. Like literally. It must be all that muscle mass, Matt figures, but he could swear McClane’s temperature is several notches higher than what has to be within the normal range for the average human body. The man is throwing BTUs like the IBM mainframe server, circa 1987.  
   
McClane’s voice is rough with sleep. It’s a deep, thick rasp in his ear.  
   
“Y’wake?”  
   
The tickle of breath against the hairs on the back of his neck makes him shiver. Even though he’s uncomfortably warm.  
   
Matt tries to answer. He goes for an offhanded, muzzy sort of ‘yeah’, but what comes out is more like a single, panted breath.  
   
“Don’t move.”  
   
Not a problem. Whatsoever. He’s pretty much been immobilized with shock since the first second he achieved consciousness.  
   
He’s not even sure he could, not with that arm across his chest like a heated band of steel. But then Matt gives a squeaky little ‘’kay’ of assent and that steely grip shifts upward. A calloused, coarse-skinned palm comes over his mouth.  
   
“Shut up.”  
   
And something else starts to creep in alongside the shock. Definite confusion, but also the cold, reptilian slither of fear down his spine.  
   
 _Hold still and keep quiet while I manhandle and cover you with my gigantic over-heated body?_ Yeah, this is familiar. In the most distressing kind of way. What the hell is going on, have rogue gunmen infiltrated McClane’s building or something?  
   
Matt nods his obedience silently, and McClane releases him. Large hands on his shoulders turn him onto his back, laying him flat. And something definitely is going on because McClane is leaning over him, like he’s reaching for something, and Matt wonders – not for the first time – if he secretly stashes lethal items in his bedside table, or even under his pillows after Matt falls asleep, in case of emergency.  
   
But it turns out McClane isn’t reaching over him. Whatever he is looking for is either underneath him or on his body somewhere because McClane is looking _him_ over. The warm, encircling hand at his throat is a gentle but, Matt thinks, unnecessary reminder of his promises to stay motionless and quiet.  
   
McClane lowers his head, enough for Matt to feel the brief heat and moisture of breath at his collar bone. Something brushes his skin and he thinks it might be the tip of McClane’s nose, but he doesn’t have time to take that in, because McClane’s hand is moving. It sweeps down his chest and his side; catches the thin, receptive tissue of his nipple on its way past, sending sensation arcing through him like electricity.  
   
Matt fights not to give away his body’s reaction to all this attention, but only succeeds in making a strangled-sounding noise that is probably only making matters worse. And things are about to get about 400% weirder too, because McClane is starting to pull at the bedcovers in his mysterious search and if they get much lower he’s going to find more than he bargained for.  
   
And then McClane jerks the sheets completely clear, and Matt’s unmistakable state is revealed. He raises a hand to cover his eyes in embarrassment, so Matt _feels_ it before he sees it, the moment he finally figures it out.  
   
McClane has found exactly what he was looking for.  
   
He’s tugging at Matt’s boxers now, letting his already-straining cock spring free. Matt feels one of those big warm hands cradle his balls, fingers stroking behind them experimentally but confident. And, oh. Oh oh oh, this is really happening.  
   
The first time he feels the warm, slippery, barely-there pressure of McClane’s tongue on the underside of his shaft, Matt’s pretty sure he goes temporarily insane. His hips come up off the mattress more or less without his permission, but it’s the last time they do, because McClane grips his pelvic bone and slams them back down.  
   
“Said don’t move.”  
   
And Matt doesn’t, not again. Not so much because he’s afraid if he does, McClane will stop what he’s doing, but mostly because after that, he’s pinned.  
   
Matt can’t imagine McClane doing this before, but he sure is serious about it – both hands clamping Matt’s hips to the bed while he uses his mouth to accomplish what he’s after. And really, Matt can appreciate his focus.    
   
It doesn’t take long. It’s kind of humiliatingly quick actually, but he can’t seriously be expected to last any amount of time given the things McClane seems to be able to do with a dick. Cheeks hollowing with the strength of his suction, bobbing his head with a nearly brutal speed. At one point Matt swears the guy has no gag reflex at all, and that’s about the moment it hits him.  
   
So it’s not for lack of trying that Matt ends up sticking to his vow of not moving, and the shutting up one he definitely doesn’t manage. He’s loud. He knows he is. Even over the pounding of blood in his ears, Matt can hear himself cursing and keening. He even does something once that might be classified as a _scream._ And that’s how it happens, squirming and bucking into the vise of McClane’s restraining hands until his toes actually curl, and his eyes roll back.  
   
He feels McClane pull off to watch him completely give over to the throes. His fingers twist violently in the sheets as McClane replaces his mouth with a tight fist, and every last scrap of energy in his adrenaline-flooded body races to that singular, central point, to stream out of him in a series of harsh, blinding bursts.  
   
When Matt is capable of piecing together a vague awareness of his surroundings again, McClane is back on his own side of the bed, watching him appraisingly.  
   
“Not that I’m complaining,” Matt says, impressed that he can form words, even if they are punctuated with the gasping breaths he’s still sucking in, chest heaving like a winded greyhound’s. “But did you happen to notice what just went on here? Because I...Christ. _Fuck_.”  
   
“Got sicka waitin’ for you to make the first move.”  
   
“First move? What…McClane, are you…I don’t know what you’re talk-“  
   
“You _really_ never shut up, you know that? I mean never.” McClane is climbing out of bed, thumping his pillow back into shape and generally straightening his side of the bed like he does every morning. “And _dirty_? I’m tellin’ ya kid, if you could hear the shit you’ve been saying in your sleep you’d tell me I’m a model of fuckin’ patience. Shit, two months of that porno soundtrack you’re running every night – I’m practically a saint.”  
   
“ I...wh– two months?”  
   
“It’s like you keep tellin’ me, how I’m an old man n’ shit. So, yeah first move. I ain’t got forever.” McClane has been removing his boxers while he explained this last part, and is now standing in front of him, rather spectacularly naked. “Which means _you_ got about three minutes to recover and meet me in that shower so we can finish this.”  
   
And then McClane, erect in every sense of the word, stalks straight out of the room.  
   
Three minutes. Matt isn’t sure he’s going to be able to make it. His legs feel like jell-o and his brain isn’t doing much better, thanks for asking.  
   
And he’s _tired_. If this has really been going on for two months, well then Matt thinks he’s the one who deserves some kind of beatitude for patience.  
   
Because.  
   
Lying awake for hours every night, feigning unconsciousness while you painstakingly struggle to think up increasingly filthy provocations to murmur sleepily, is fucking exhausting.  
   
Matt yawns widely and scratches at his stomach where the sticky, wet tracks of his orgasm are cooled and drying, and looks at the alarm clock on McClane’s bedside table. It looks like it’s from the early nineties. He’s surprised it’s even digital.  
   
Three minutes. He isn’t entirely sure McClane isn’t going to come storming out of the shower dripping wet and drag him bodily in there if he makes him wait five.

But he doesn’t mind finding out. 

______________________  
'Snick, November 2010 


End file.
